Echoes Down The Corridor
by Emmaplease
Summary: The Crucible by Arthur Miller fanfic. Inspired by "Echoes Down the Corridor", the epilogue at the end. So far I've dealt with Abigail and Mary Warren. Probably more to come.
1. Chapter 1 Abigail

**The Crucible, eh? I'm having a stab at it.**

_"Who are they, mama?" asked Abby, tugging at her mama's leg._

_"Hush, Abby," said her mama, hurrying her along. "Don't look. And don't you ever come here alone, you hear me?"_

Abigail Williams sighed and tried once again to drag a hairbrush through her hair. In Salem, these things hadn't mattered so much, her hair always hidden under those stupid bonnets, her body under a shapless dress, always brown, always _boring. _Here in Boston, thought Abigail, things were different. It _mattered, _what you looked like, if you wanted to get along in life.

Finally giving up, she went to the window of her boarding house and surveyed the street below, already thronging with early morning business people. Across the street from her, someone emptied their chamberpot into the road and waved a hand at her. Abigail waved back automatically.

The third day in Boston, and Abigail had no idea where to go. Boston seemed to slide past her, jostling, and leave her behind on the floor, watching them go with a kind of virtuous outrage.

"Today," she said out loud, looking with a sudden glow in her stomach at the mattress, where Uncle Parris's - _her _- money was hidden, "I'm out of here. I'm heading for Europe!"

Suddenly taken by a crazy joy, she danced around the floor like she had in the forest, when Tituba had conjured Goody Putnam's dead babies.

A loud knock on the door disturbed her joyride. Hastily, she tucked her hair back in and opened the door.

"Rent's due," said the landlord curtly, beckoning with his hand, "cough up."

"But sir," protested Abigail, turning on the country charm, "I have been here but two days!"

"Rent's due on the third of each month." insisted the landlord, "That'll be 6 and 4, please."

Abigail scowled, all traces of politeness gone from her face.

"Fine. Wait there."

She shut the door to in his face. Abigail was being careful. No-one must know where her money was kept. It was her ticket out of this dead-end, simpleton country. Quickly, she rifled under the mattress and withdrew the rent, then handed it to the landlord, slamming the door in his face this time.

"Lousy, good for nothing--" muttered Abigail, gathering her clothes up, "glad I'm leaving today, and _then _we'll see what he says, won't we. Won't we?"

Finally finished, Abigail left the boarding house and turned her back on Boston society.

About 2 minutes down the road, Abigail noticed her feet begin to hurt, and that her suitcase was getting heavier. And she was _hungry. _

One for the journey, decided Abigail, getting out her money back. On the side of the road, she noticed a pie stall. Struggling through the crowds, she set down her suitcase.

"Pork pie please," she said brusquely, setting down the required money and more. The serving boy looked at her strangely - she'd been more than generous - and gave her her order. She picked it up and left, turning down an alley she thought might lead towards the port. Munching hungrily on the pork pie, she headed blindly down the alley, and that was when she realised. Dead end.

"Jesus," muttered Abigail, kicking the wall angrily and throwing the newspaper that wrapped the pie at the wall. It floated haphazardly, not giving her the release she needed. "Next time I'll fly to Europe."

Letting out a short laugh at the irony, Abigail turned about and headed back up the alley.

"Excuse me?" came a quiet, fluttery voice from behind her.

Abigail turned back, slightly irritated at the interruption.

A pair of bright eyes glinted in the darkness.

"Tickets please," it said, and there was a rush of air in the darkness.

The fist connected with her face and Abigail immediately saw sparks, disorientated by the blow, and then there was a hefty tugging at her hand, the one holding the money.

"No!" yelled Abigail, lurching haphazardly away. The face grinned and swung a punch to her stomach. Abigail doubled over, winded and unable to hold on to her money. Reaching out for it, Abigail found herself on the ground, her feet having given way beneath her. There was a sharp kick to her head, and then the world went black.

o0o

"Let GO!" yelled Abigail instinctively, as she felt a hand claw into her hair, "Just let me go to Europe!"

"Europe, child?" came a husky voice from above her, chuckling, "You'll be lucky to get as far as Cambridge!"

"I'm not going to Cambridge," said Abigail, her eyes flying open, "I'm going to Europe."

"Hush,now, child," said the face looming above her, a woman's, rounded, plump and heavily powdered. "Europe can wait 'till you're hearty again, surely?"

"No it cannot!" said Abigail, leaping up, the picture of righteous indignation, ignoring the copious pain that came with movement. "Now where is my money?"

There was no answer.

"Well? Where is it! ANSWER ME! Are you such a common peasant that you cannot understand plain english?"

The woman was not about to be beaten down.

"Sit down, child!" she shouted, "your money's in the alehouses and the gambling taverns by now, wasted by the callous hands that stole it! Europe!" she cried, exasperated, "Ohh, how the young do dream. You're as soon as likely to become the Queen Mother than to reach Europe in your lifetime."

Abigail sat down, deflated. The woman's face softened.

"Listen, child, 'tisnt all over yet. I can give you options, still. My name's Elladora Fawcett, Dora to her friends, Ma Fawcett to my clients. I specialise..." she said delicately, placing her words with care, "in providing men with that which they cannot live without."

Abigail looked perplexed.

"Get your cogs turning girl, what can't they live without?"

Abigail shrugged.

"Food?" she hazarded, with a feigned nonchalant air that hid her embarrassment at her ignorance.

"Whoring, child!" said Elladora eventually, throwing her hands into the air. "Giving men what they want, when they want it! Fresh young virgins, boys, girls, any other miscellaneous requirements!"

"And you-" spluttered Abigail, "you want-you want me to..to-"

Elladora smiled conspiritally, happy she'd finally caught on and not in the least worried about her reaction. She got up to leave.

"Stay here as long as you like. I'll have my girls bring you everything you need. And think about what I said-" she finished, going out the door, "a girl like you don't have many options in a town like Boston."

Abigail looked at her on the way out, spite in her eyes.

o0o

When Abigail woke up the next morning, it was if she'd already decided in her sleep what she was going to do.

As if by magic, a red dress had appeared lain over the dresser. Even if she hadn't decided, Abigail would have tried it on. It was of a coarse material, but thick, heavy, and _astonishingly _low cut. Abigail grinned at herself in the mirror. She'd have liked to see John resist her in _this _get up. The dress made her look more confident, more grown-up, less Abby and more Miss Abigail Williams. Smiling quietly to herself, Abigail headed downstairs. Europe would have to wait - Abigail Williams was seeing to Boston for now.


	2. Chapter 2 Mary Warren

**Heh, this story was supposed to be a oneshot :)**

**I changed my mind.**

It has been a long time since I were Mary Warren of Salem, Massachussetts. A good ten years now, but it still feels like yesterday to me. For nine of those I have been Goodwife Mary, wife of Mister John Rowe. I have three children, of five, seven, and nine respectively, and yet still, inside of me is an echo of that Mary Warren I used to be. And it all came to the fore yesterday noon.

o0o

I'd been shopping in Cambridge, for a new cloak for John Jnr and shoes for little Rebecca. At first when I saw her I did not believe my eyes, but I suppose my heart knew it was her.

"Goody Proctor," I murmured, without meaning to speak.

She turned around, anger in her eyes.

"I say, what do you-oh!" she said, surprise coating her face, "Mary Warren!"

"I didn't mean to-" I stammered, thirteen again.

"No, no," said Goody Proctor, despite everything anxious not to offend. "Look you, we will go in here so that I may explain myself."

We headed into a small coffee shop, and Goody Proctor ordered tea and cakes before sitting down.

"I do apologise, Mary Warren," begun Goody Proctor, "no-one has called me by that name in many years, not since I remarried. It did surprise me...somewhat."

All of a sudden, years of remorse flooded my mind.

"Oh, Goody Proctor," I said, burying my head in my hands, "It is I who should apologise! Were it not for me...your Mr Proctor would-"

I dissolved into sobs on the table, unable as always to keep my head clear.

"Oh, Mary!" said Goody Proctor, touching my face, "How could I ever blame you for that?"

I looked up, confused.

"You were just a child, Mary! An innocent, scared little girl who thought she was being attacked from all sides. Surely you cannot blame yourself for that?"

I sniffed loudly, lifting up my head.

"Mary," said Goody Proctor, holding my hands, "it is not mine to give, but you should know I found forgiveness for you in my heart a long time ago. All that remains for you is to forgive yourself."

"I cannot, Goody Proctor," I said, sitting up and wiping my face, "but I thank you."

"And I you, Mary Warren," said Elizabeth, standing up to leave.

**An English teacher would love that, there's some great progression of feeling.**

**Anyway, that came shorter than I expected.**

**Enjoy.**


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